


der Wächterengel

by Kasuchi



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Poor Dead Husband
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-06
Updated: 2006-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuchi/pseuds/Kasuchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To himself everyone is immortal; he may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	der Wächterengel

**Author's Note:**

> For **marcasite** and a part of the [Major Arcana](http://velocityofsound.livejournal.com/148882.html) challenge. This is the Death Card.

"I hate you sometimes."

He watches her with eyes infinitely sad and waits for her to continue.

"I think, maybe if you had fought harder, wanted to live a little more, you'd still be here with me."

He reaches out to her but she shakes her head and his hands drop soundlessly to his side.

"But mostly, I hate that you left me here. Alone. I _knew_ you were going, and that it couldn't be helped but...I still..." She chokes and sobs quietly. He wants so much to wrap his hands around hers, to comfort her, but he can't. He looks over her shaking shoulders and sees her mother coming toward her and nods slightly, acknowledges her. Her mother does only what she can, and places a hand on her shoulder.

She looks up at an overcast sky and glares at the gray clouds.

"Come on, Allison," her mother murmurs. "Let's go." Mutely, she nods and allows herself to be lead away.

They are long gone, but still he lingers. His feet leave no footprints in the grass, no sign of his presence. He stares at the tombstone mutely, unsure what to think.

It's his.

&&&

_He was waiting in the little, sterile room. Posters lined the walls, telling the effects of smoking, the parts of the eye._

_The wait was killing him._

_The door finally opened and in came Dr. Harmond, a good man and his doctor for years. He looked grim._

_"Dr. Harmond?"_

_He sighed heavily. "It's not good news, son."_

_His gaze sharpened. "Just tell me."_

_He looked him in the eye. "You're dying."_

_He licked his lips. "What's wrong." It wasn't a question._

_"The mass on the side of your neck is a symptom of anaplastic thyroid cancer. It's an aggressive, rare form, and it's often inoperable."_

_He looked away from the pristine whiteness of the older man's lab coat and stared at his hands. "Now what?"_

_"We'll start you on radiation therapy and chemo. Maybe it will work." He reached out and clasped his shoulder. He looked the doctor in the eye. "If...if it doesn't work out, you'll need to get your affairs in order. You'll be...Anaplastic thyroid cancer patients usually don't get more than eight months, if that."_

_He blinked slowly and nodded._

_Suddenly, he wanted to see the sun._

&&&

She accepts an internship at the Mayo Clinic a few years after. He has watched her these three years. She has dedicated herself to her schooling, throwing herself completely into the textbooks. Her professors marvel at her drive and determination. A handful of them have an inkling of what happened. She is quieter, darker. He lies beside her at night and run a ghost of a hand down the side of her frame and hears her shiver and watches her with dark eyes.

Sometimes she speaks to him. Not to him - to the memory of him. In sleep he is closest to her. He whispers in her ear that she is beautiful, that he loves her, that he wants her to be happy. She sighs and murmurs that she isn't ready to be happy, not yet. And he kisses her quietly, because he can't feel it. But she can, and she sighs against him and reaches out. And then starts awake.

She is alone.

Sandra, her roommate freshman year and first actual friend on-campus, worries about her. She asks her why she's off to Minne-freaking-sota when she could go to local hospitals just as good for her internship and residence.

She simply looks out the window and replies, "It's time."

&&&

_He sat in the park in September, a few weeks after the diagnosis. He had his first treatment, and he felt like hell. His hair already began falling out in clumps, and he was nauseous just walking down this path._

_He sat back against the park bench, oddly comfortable despite the stiff, wooden paneling and opened the novel he brought with them. He was finally accustomed to the lilt and sway of Dickens when a Frisbee hit him across the back of his head._

_"Oh, my goodness!" A voice cried. He heard footsteps approaching but opted to rub the back of his head instead._

_"I am_ so _sorry." Her hands fluttered around his head, unsure. "Sandra threw the Frisbee harder than I expected and I tried to catch it but it was just too fast and it slipped past my fingers and hit you and are you okay?"_

_He had to smile. "You're rambling."_

_She laughed nervously and straightened. He raised his eyes to look at her and his breath caught in his throat. Even in a t-shirt and jeans, she looked fantastic. "Yeah, Sandy says I should stop." She grinned at him and he felt himself smiling back._

_"Nah, it's cute. Endearing, even."_

_"You can say annoying. I won't be hurt."_

_It's his turn to laugh, and it almost felt strange. "Okay, a little bit."_

_She extended her hand out to him. "I'm Allison."_

_He clasped her hand in both of his. "Hello, Allison. I'm--"_

&&&

She goes through the motions of life. He never wanted his for her, doesn't want it now, but he is at a loss at what to do. He can't leave until she is happy again. Not content, happy. He has promised himself this, promised the bright light he saw that he will do this for her, and the light gave him approval.

It's his mission.

She takes a file and enters the clinic, taking another patient in. Her bedside manner is impeccable. She is sincere, caring, and charming. But it's all superficial, and he can see the cracks in her armor.

It's been three years, she has her residency requirement, has started her specialist training. Immunology. He wonders if she didn't choose oncology because of him. He hopes not.

At night she has nightmares. She doesn't sleep much anymore. She's turning pale, spending so much time indoors. He remembers running his hands down golden skin, through soft, dark tresses and kissing her until she was pink.

In the fluorescent lights, she looks almost green.

He sees her filing through fellowship applications a year later. Sees her pause at the name "Gregory House." Sees her set it aside. Sees her fill it out.

Sees her wait for an interview.

&&&

_They walked through the very park where they met just a month ago. It was almost Halloween, and the leaves were turning colors too gorgeous to articulate. He breathed deeply; he knew it was his last autumn._

_He turned to the darling girl aside him. Her hand was wrapped in his larger one, and he loved the feel of it there. He loved her. He was sure. It wasn't his imminent death, it wasn't her caring nature. He knew love, knew that this was it. And he wanted it there by his side._

_"Allie?" She smiled up at him, glowing and sweet._

_"What?"_

_He bent down on one knee, and looked up at her. Her eyes widened and she placed a hand over her mouth._

_"Allie, I love you. I want you with me for...for this journey I'm going through. I know we haven't been seeing each other long, but I'm sure I love you. I've never been more certain of anything in my life. Stay with me. I can't promise you forever. I can promise you I'll always protect you and love you." He paused and took a breath. "Allie, will you marry me?"_

_She searched his eyes, wanting to know, to see the sincerity there. She took a breath._

_"Yes."_

_He loved her more in that moment than he ever had before._

&&&

"Excuse me."

She greets a woman in a dramatic pink suit, he notes, and watches her shift her weight from foot to foot.

"May I help you?" The other woman is all drama; her eyes are large and bold, her clothes draw your eye. She garners attention and is well aware of it.

"Where is the diagnostics office?" His girl, he is so proud.

The bold woman (he wants to call her Frida) smiles sympathetically. "You're here to see Dr. House, aren't you?" She nods slowly. "Good luck," the other woman adds, snapping the folder in her hands shut.

"Should I be worried?"

"It's more to what extent you should be worried."

She gapes. "How bad is he?" Her voice approaches supersonic.

"I'm his boss, and he gives _me_ grief." She grabs another file from the stack and smiles humorlessly. "Level four. Good luck."

She steps into the elevator and he follows. She looks pale and a little shell-shocked. He wonders if Frida isn't exaggerating to mess with his girl.

There is a man sitting at the desk behind glass doors bearing House's name, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Steeling herself, she pushes open the door and enters the room. He passes through and eavesdrops.

"Are--are you Dr. House?"

The brown-haired man laughs sharply. "Hardly. I'm Dr. Wilson. House has gone off in search of food. With my money."

She smiles and slides into a chair across from him. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Yeah, well, I'm not holding my breath. Knowing him, he's run off with it all."

"Some friend." She pauses and then adds, "You sound like someone I met downstairs."

"That's Cuddy for you." He pulls a folder off the cluttered desk. "I take it you're Allison Cameron?"

She tucks a stray curl behind her ear and straightens.

They conduct the interview and after twenty minutes she rises, shakes his hand, and walks out. The glass door is closing softly behind her and she sighs heavily. He studies her - his girl is so tired. A breath later, she heads for the elevator.

There are a handful of people waiting and she patiently waits with them. She is in no hurry; the big shadow looming over her day is past.

She stiffens as she feels someone come up beside her. She hears the thump of something, a shuffle-step in cha-cha time beside her. He's a scruffy guy in a button-up and blazer. If she squints, she can see the lines of a t-shirt through the light cotton. He's much too close, but she ignores him and simply breathes.

"I hate hospitals," he offers by way of greeting. She blinks.

"I've found it's best to avoid things I hate," she responds mildly, a drop of sarcasm in her voice.

There's a long silence. He can see Scruffy looking at his girl, tracing the lines of her figure with his eyes. It makes him angry. Scruffy's eyes sharpen as he studies her face, and he can see a twitch in his jaw and the fingers on his cane flex - Scruffy is intrigued, and by his girl no less.

"Yeah, well," he taps his cane deliberately, trying to drag her attention to his leg, "it's hard with this sucker."

She doesn't fall for it; meeting his gaze, she simply rolls her eyes. "Kick whatever habit you have and you should be fine." The elevator bell dings and she boards. He and Scruffy follow; there's no one else besides them, and then really only two as is.

"Habit?" There's an edge to Scruffy's voice, and he can see the other man's hands twitching over the wood of his cane.

She breathes an exasperated sigh and faces him. "You're perfectly fine, barring," she gestures vaguely at his leg, "that. So clearly, you're here for the drugs." She'll all Allison, fire and edge and sharp as hell. Beauty and brains and her mother's mouth make for quite a deadly combination.

Scruffy has an eyebrow approaching his (receding) hairline. "I know quite a few people who'd disagree with you there."

"I'm sure they think you're mentally unstable, too." Now both his eyebrows are raised and his hands are wrapped around his cane like he's about to beat someone over the head with it.

"I'd be willing to be your family thinks you're Little Miss Badass."

"Actually that's Little Miss Smartass." The doors open with a ring and she smiles sarcastically at Scruffy and steps off. "Nice talking to you," she says, adding a little sarcastic wave. She turns around and he's abreast when they both hear a voice.

"Cameron." It's a hard, commanding tone, and they turn in unison.

"You start Monday."

"I'm--I'm sorry, what?" She stammers, completely off-guard. The hand with the briefcase is shaking.

"Tsk tsk, Dr. Cameron." Scruffy is smirking now. "You haven't pieced it together yet? I'm Dr. House." He twirls his cane deftly, catching it just as the doors close. "Monday. Eight." The heavy doors shut and he watches her gape openmouthed at her distorted reflection.

"He's...he's awful," she murmurs. Then she grins and clicks out of there.

At a stoplight, he showers her with kisses.

&&&

_He stood under the spray of water and let it wash over him like a waterfall. He hadn't moved for fifteen minutes. The warm water felt inordinately good; it distracted him from the pounding in his head. The pain she didn't know about. He smiled against the spray; his own fault for marrying a med student. His hair had thinned drastically, and the water pounded against his skull, but it was comfortable. He wished he didn't have to stop, to leave this bubble where nothing went wrong._

_Suddenly the bathroom spun around him. The air grew thick with steam and he stumbled. He was dimly aware of a cry escaping his lips. He fell against the tile and porcelain hard; his hands and knees stung, the shampoo and soap fell into the tub with a thud and clatter._

_She jimmied the lock in seconds, and he had to file that away for later. Ignoring the spray of water, she stepped into the tub clothes and all and frantically checked him over for injuries. He watched her with eyes clouding with steam and lust. She looked up, worried, and he kissed her, openmouthed and indelicately. It wasn't meant to be gentle and she pulled away, startled._

_"What--?" But she didn't get to finish; he kissed her again and tugged at the buttons of her shirt, peeling it off of her as he tangled his tongue with hers. She didn't offer resistance, running her hands over his shoulders and down his arms. She kicked off her pants and threw them away from the shower, letting them land where they would. Naked and gleaming, she stood before him and all he thought was that she was his utterly and completely. Legs shaking, he kissed her again, running his hands down her sides until they came to rest on her hips. Lifting her, he entered her slowly, watching her hiss and loll her head back. He felt her core muscles stretch and shift around him and buried his face into her neck._

_"I love you," he whispered, and drove into her hard. Her gasps faded in to the background with the shower as his heartbeat echoed in his head and she arched against him. He came as he felt her inner muscles contract._

_Tired and aching, he leaned his forehead against the cool tile, his body pressing into hers, and she returned the favor in kind._

_"Allie," he murmured, unable to look at her. "I think something's wrong."_

&&&

"Woman has seizures. No one's quite sure why."

Scruffy - really, Dr. House - stands before Chase and Cameron, a dry erase marker on his nose. The two of them share a look.

"Er, what?" Chase runs a hand through his hair, making the ends stick up. He has to hide a smile.

"Young woman, healthy." He tilts his head down and catches the marker. "Thirty-ish. She's an employee for a daycare. Asian. She's having seizures. Differential diagnosis."

They look at each other again. He feels like laughing, though no one will hear.

"Differ-what?"

Scruffy sighs heavily. "Problem." He points at the board. "Solution," he continues, and gestures at them.

"Meningitis?" Cameron offers almost immediately, her eyes sharpening on the letters printed in white.

"No. No fever."

Chase taps his pen against his lips. "She's Asian? What about Japanese encephalitis?"

"No, still no fever. And she's never been out of the country."

"Hypoglycemia."

"Don’t know how you British do it, but in the 'States that's the first thing we test."

"I'm bloody Australian," he grouses and taps his pen again. She smiles, and so does he. Chase, he knows, has been there two months or so already, the first fellow hired.

"Her blood sugar's normal, then?" Cameron eyes the white board again, making connections and cutting the ones that don't fit.

"A little elevated, but this is America."

"Has she been pregnant lately?" Chase takes a seat and rests his head on his hands, focused on the clear whiteboard.

"No, and eclampsia would be so much more inane."

"A tumor," she offers. "Large, in the brain. No fever, seizures, not pregnant. Never been out of the country. It might be metastasized if she's got lung cancer or cervical cancer."

Scruffy smirks, he grins. "Now what?"

"I do an MRI?"

"Yes. And then?"

"...show you the sheet?"

"No, you look for what shouldn't be there!"

"Oh."

"I noticed neither of you offered drugs at all."

"I noticed neither of us is a neurologist." Chase is being catty.

"Good point. He should be black, too." Scruffy limps off.

She gets a far-away look in her eyes for a long moment. He lays a hand on her shoulder and squeezes.

All she feels is air.

&&&

_"Let us open our books to Psalm 23; The Lord is my shepherd." The priest stood before the congregation, hands folded solemnly atop the podium. He alone did not rifle through pages; he alone knew the verse by heart._

_He turned to face her, hands itching to share the tome's weight with her. She stared blankly down at the thin pages, ivory skin the color of the pristine pages edged in gold. A storm brewed behind her eyes._

_"The Lord is my shepherd," the father began. "I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake." Her hands shook, and the pages shifted in preparation to close. He watched her, saw her eyes waver, saw her angled features shiver, saw her bite her lips._

_"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me," the clergyman's voice rang in the rafters of the church, but the words fell on deaf ears. She rose quietly, the book of psalms in the back of the pew once more, and padded out of the church._

_She drove to a hilltop in a park somewhere far away and watched the clouds until the sun set and the streetlamps turned on and the stars were too far and too dim to be seen._

&&&

"Don't you get tired of always seeing the best in people?"

"Don't you get tired of seeing the worst?" She continues to surf, scrolling through medical journals without looking at him.

(He stands by the bookcase and observes.)

His cane thuds softly against the carpet. "I asked first."

"Should I?" Her eyes flick to him briefly before returning to the screen.

"You'd think that endless optimism would drain out of you eventually."

"You'd think," she replies noncommittally and it signals the end of the conversation.

(He remembers long nights spent staring at the moon through her curtains, of all the boxes still in storage back in Connecticut. He sees never-ending showers where the water turned from scalding to icy and she didn't flinch. He remembers her, thinner and gaunter, pale and drawn. He hears the echoes of her sobs in his heart, feels the pinpricks of her tears in his eyes and knows it is his burden to bear. He is Raphael; she is his charge.)

But that's not how they work; _he_ is in control. Always.

"I do think."

She rolls her eyes and shuts off her monitor. "News to me," she thinks (he can see it in her eyes) but she says, "Doesn't being a misanthrope get old?"

"Never." He near-silently pad-thumps over to the sink and fills a mug with water. "I'm never disappointed."

"I'm never miserable," she replies softly, and grabs a pen off her desk. "I'm going to the clinic." She pushes past the glass door and walks down the hall.

(He sees him watch her over the rim of the red mug. He thinks maybe the other man can see him. He tells himself it's just the intensity behind his gaze.

He wonders how His Girl can handle it.)

&&&

_She lay in bed, splayed across. The air grew thick and stuffy, and her body gleamed with sweat. The covers were long since kicked away, and her hair stuck to her neck. Her skin was gray, and large circles marred her cheeks; she hadn't been sleeping._

_He remembered when the sight of her like this, hot and bothered, would have set him alight. He remembered touching her, always touching; he loved tracing the arches and dips of her curves. She fascinated him._

_She rose and padded to the window and glared out into the world. Yellow sodium lights made eerie shadows on the sidewalk. A faint siren rang a shill scream in the night. All was still._

_She shut the curtain and made her way to the main room in the half light, him close behind. She pulled the first novel her hand alighted on in the dark and made her way back to the bed. A slender hand turned on a light, setting it to dim. She peered at the cover and froze._

_He hovered over her shoulder and read the gold inlay himself. _Pride & Prejudice_. He wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, and they were both right._

_She shook her head and opened the heavy copy. Her hand delicately traced the note in the cover for a long moment._

&&&

He marvels at his girl. She is so much stronger than he had ever expected. But she is still his Allie, his girl of many dreams and many broken pieces.

She doesn't know where she fits into in his life. He has Stacey and she is alone, and she doesn't want to think about her empty apartment. And then she meets _him_. The other man. The one from Africa, who does so much good for all those people there. She shares small moments with him and he asks her to come away with him on his journey. And ultimately she says no.

He sees the temptation in her eyes, hidden behind stormy gray.

She brings home meth, and he curses his formless figure, the pact he has made to garner stolen years in this semblance of a life. She sleeps with Chase and he aches to grab her before she can answer the door and shake her until she snaps out of the haze of the drugs.

She moans into his mouth and he wishes he could spit in disgust. There's a tugging from heaven, but he gestures furiously; she must be happy. Pleasure is not joy. She gasps and he cannot look at her.

After Chase sneaks out, he kisses her over and over until he can't kiss her anymore, because his girl must never break again. He won't let her.

Stacey leaves and she is picking up stray pieces of herself and then he gets shot. And everything changes.

&&&

_Allie,_

_I knew one day that I would be gone. I was selfish. I wanted to not be alone when I died, to have someone there with me until the bitter, bitter end. But I never stopped and thought about what that meant for you, what that entailed in your life. You're dying with me, Allie. Don't. Don't give up living for me. I'm not worth it. I'm dead and that's it. I won't have you joining me. This world was made for you to be in it. You are going to help people - you will heal the sick. I won't allow you to throw away everything you've ever worked for, strived for, lived for to be thrown away like so much garbage. If you love me, you will live your life to the fullest. Each and every day until your cup runneth over. My girl should never be sad - you're so much prettier when you smile._

_My girl is a fighter. You never have backed down before, never let yourself be dominated by the world you live in. I am not more or less important than anyone else. I am your husband; I am not God. Don't pine away for me, don't lose yourself in grief. You will find a man who loves you as much as I do one day, and he will stay with you until you are old, gray, and wrinkly and die after you. You deserve that and so much more._

_I love you, Allie. A thousand suns and a million light years and all the in-between._

_Live. It's the only thing I can give you._

_I'll be watching._

_All my love,  
\---_

&&&

She offers him her hand silently. There isn't anything in her gaze other than lightning and he takes it hesitantly. The brush of her fingers against his palms sends shivers down his spine, and she looks shocked as well.

His Allie is coming out, sassy and sharp again. And Scruffy, he can see, is fascinated. He props his elbows on a desk and watches them walk out of the clinic day after day and he sees her shift. She's standing straighter. Her eyes are greener.

She's glowing.

He stares at their hands joined and smiles.

 _"Allison,"_ he says. _"Allie."_ She turns around and sees the outline of wings but she blinks and there are only leaves. He squeezes her hand and she turns back and walks on.

In that moment, everything is still.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] This came out entirely different than what I'd expected, but there you are. 
> 
> [2] "der Wächterengel" means "the guardian angel" in German. It seemed appropriate, and the phrase in the Romance languages wasn't what I needed it to be.
> 
> [3] "To himself everyone is immortal; he may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead." -Samuel Butler. 


End file.
